


if it gets rough, it's time to get rough

by skatingsplits



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Play, F/M, don't read it, everything is fully consensual but you know how they like to play, zelda is ridiculously subby in this so if that isn't your jam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: It was easier to be furious with him for taking her for granted than it was to be furious with herself for letting it be true, and pushing him away for once instead of opening her legs and getting fucked over the desk had felt glorious. For a while. Until she realised she’d been left with merely the ache between her thighs and the small but unshakeable suspicion that she’d managed to make rather a fool of herself.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 31
Kudos: 79





	if it gets rough, it's time to get rough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hacklesacademy (ladyvivien)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/gifts).



> 1\. Happy belated birthday to the best porn buddy a girl could have. I love you, this is totally as good as a real gift, right?  
> 2\. Title from Haim's "Falling".  
> 3\. Check the warnings, just in case!

Although she has no intention of admitting it to anyone but herself, Zelda hadn’t really thought her little Lysistrata ploy through. She’d been furious, less at Shirley Jackson’s unsophisticated jabs at her respectability and more at Faustus’s smug certainty that everything between them would be running entirely on his wishes. He was so unquestionably sure that she was at his beck and call, day and night, night mother and nightmaiden, and Zelda had seen red. It was easier to be furious with him for taking her for granted than it was to be furious with herself for letting it be true, and pushing him away for once instead of opening her legs and getting fucked over the desk had felt glorious. For a while. Until she realised she’d been left with merely the ache between her thighs and the small but unshakeable suspicion that she’d managed to make rather a fool of herself. 

Still, it’s a deeply unpleasant surprise to Zelda that her vow of abstinence, Faustus-specific as it is, is far more difficult to keep than it was to make. They’ve gone years without... enjoying each other before, and it’s never even caused her a twinge of regret or frustration. She’d filled her time and her bed with hundreds of other delightful options and it goes against all reason that she has no desire to do the same now. But apparently sinking to her knees in front of the fire in the parlour all those weeks ago had awoken something inside her that makes everyone else seem dull and lacklustre in comparison. Zelda doesn’t _want_ to have dinner with Brother Lovecraft, not even when he mentions the full-grain leather restraints he’s just ordered in from Tuscany. She doesn’t _want_ to go home from Black Mass with Sister Highsmith, even though she has first-hand experience of the witch’s vast and varied toy collection. What she wants is to be on her knees in front of the High Priest, on all fours, on his lap, on her back, it doesn’t matter as long as it’s his voice murmuring in her ear, his nails scratching along her neck. As long as she can sink into that scary, divine place that only he is allowed to send her to, where the only thing that matters is him and them and how their bodies move together. 

And the worst part is, the bastard knows it. Every time he catches her looking at him, Zelda whips her head away as if meeting his eyes could give her third degree burns, but the smirk on his face is unmissable for minutes after. And when she catches him looking at her, he never turns his gaze away. He just keeps _staring_ at her, like he’s going to fucking eat her alive as soon as he gets the chance. It’s a look that has always made her knees a little weak but at least she used to be able to get her own back by pretending to drop something and showing him exactly how tight her skirt was. Now she has no recourse whatsoever, and she can hardly ask him to stop looking at her without sounding like a desperate slut at best and an absolute lunatic at worst. So Faustus gets to keep on toying with her, touching her arm for a moment too long or letting his hand rest too low on the small of her back and knowing all the while that Zelda has accidentally given him the upper hand. He knows her too well to let her play this game on her own terms and, unfortunately, it just so happens to be a game he’s very, very good at. 

No wonder, then, that Zelda has a little slip. It isn’t her fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Dorian’s, for keeping that bottle of special Irish whiskey behind the bar for her and being very generous indeed with what constitutes a double. And in the aftermath of the play, everyone in the bar is running high on endorphins (or whichever other substances they’ve happened to acquire) and it would be almost churlish not to allow herself to get swept up in the general merriment. Intense pride in her niece and nephew has filled her with bubbling warmth from head to toe, and the alcohol hasn’t hurt either. For the first time in such a long time, it feels as if there’s nothing to worry about. Ambrose has his freedom and, judging by the way his arms were wrapped around Prudence Night’s waist earlier, is thoroughly enjoying it. Her own return to teaching has felt as natural as a duck sliding back into water and even Sabrina seems to be making tentative steps towards settling in. Undoubtedly, she’s wrong and more worries will come flooding in as soon as she starts sipping Hilda’s hangover potion at the breakfast table tomorrow but for now, Zelda allows herself to relish the foreign feeling of contentment. Well, contentment and the gentle pressure of Faustus’s hand on her knee. When he’d taken her arm and walked her over here, his demeanour had been purely platonic in a way that had both surprised and, frankly, annoyed her. As much as Faustus teasing her is irritating, she’d rather have a hundred titillating touches than be treated like a sexless old maid and the High Priest doesn’t seem to be able to talk to her (or possibly any woman) without reverting to one extreme or the other. She needn’t have worried; as the night moves on and the bottles get emptier, the frozen politeness in Faustus’s face dissipates into wolfish hunger that Zelda can’t help but find flattering. It’s an expression she knows devastatingly well, well enough to know that when he offers to see her home, she ought to say no. 

She says yes. 

The feeling of walking out of the room with his hand on her back and a hundred pairs of eyes tracking their every step is so good that Zelda can almost convince herself that she doesn’t need the actual sex. This validation is enough, the knowledge that out of everyone in the place, he’s once again chosen her. She can keep her hastily-made promise and still be reassured that Faustus is buzzing with the same intense, instinctive, frustrated need as she is. Or so she thinks until he hooks his arm around her waist and shoves her hard up against the foyer wall and Zelda couldn’t stop herself from sliding her hands into his hair and sinking her teeth into his bottom lip if her life depended on it. The kiss is viciously passionate, as if they haven’t touched each other in decades and not a mere fortnight, and she knows that they are both punishing the other for not succumbing to this sooner. She can feel him hard against her hip almost instantly and Zelda lets a blissful sigh escape her busy mouth. Physical pleasure is one thing but the delicious knowledge that he’s been craving this as much as she has is another thing entirely. The worst parts of her own mind- the parts that sound like her angry father or disappointed sister or condescending brother, the parts that tell her she’s nothing but a pathetic spinster that the High Priest is relieved to have gotten rid of- are all being proved wrong with every feverish kiss to her jaw and rough caress of her body. Her rational mind is slowly submerging into a lovely pool of hazy pleasure and she’d been so stupid to deny herself this. Her silly ultimatum doesn’t matter now, it can’t matter when her cunt is soaking and his hand is slowly teasing its way up her thigh. This is what matters, feeling like this, feeling so utterly electric, feeling like she’s wanted, like she’s so much more than just the sour maiden aunt that her niece and nephew have to- 

Oh, fucking Satan below, her niece and nephew. Her niece and nephew who are just on the other side of the wall that Faustus has her pinned against, who might walk out any minute to see their aunt with her tongue in the High Priest’s mouth and his clever fingers grazing against her ruined underwear. A wave of icy cold unpleasantness permeates through the heavy fog of lust that her mind has become but her body hasn’t quite caught up and it’s a wrench to grab his lapels and push him away. 

“Faustus...” She says and the word comes out as a wrecked gasp for air and she wants him so badly. “Faustus, not here.” 

To her unmitigated dismay, Faustus’s response is instantaneous. One of his hands slides out of her hair as the other relinquishes its hold on her hip, and he straightens up, looking calm and composed despite the lipstick smeared over his face and the darkness of his eyes. 

“Forgive me, Sister Spellman. How unprofessional of me.” No, no, no, no, no, that’s not what she meant, that’s not what she wanted, but before she can find the words to protest, he presses a distinctly obscene kiss to her knuckles and it leaves her breathless and she’ll let the entire coven watch him fuck her without a care in the world if he just kisses her again. But he doesn’t and his smile is supercilious and cold, and the contrast of the burning heat surging through Zelda’s veins with the ice in Faustus’s eyes is almost physically painful. He disappears into the darkness, and even in her current state of aroused, drunken desperation, Zelda can’t let herself chase after him. All she can do is go home with messy hair and an aching cunt and lock herself in the bathroom to chase three consecutive orgasms thinking about being fucked in Dorian’s foyer until she was screaming, sobbing, desperately apologising for ever thinking that she was too good for her High Priest, begging for his cock so everyone could hear, everyone would know that she’s nothing more than Faustus Blackwood’s needy slut. When she finally crawls into bed, ignoring Hilda’s cheery inquiry about the party, Zelda’s eyes are red and swollen and it isn’t from an evening spent surrounded by too much cigar smoke. 

To her own immense frustration, their almost-encounter doesn’t strengthen her resolve to be dignified and distant and completely unconcerned with anything that her ostensible boss might say or do. Instead, she spends half the time with her mind deep in completely profane fantasies that usually involve positions and activities so athletic that she’d need a professional warm-up before attempting them, and the rest in such a foul mood that she actually reduces a fifty year-old warlock in her Advanced Aramaic class to tears. To cap it all, Faustus doesn’t seem remotely concerned. He’s switched back to treating her like a respectable old dowager, so fucking polite and so fucking infuriating. 

Five days after he’d almost fucked her, they sit side by side in his office as he outlines his plans for Lupercalia and Zelda feels like she’s going to burst. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to torture her with his proximity, and it doesn’t help that every word that comes out of his mouth is too unutterably dull to even slightly distract her from her own traitorous arousal. He trails on and on and on, saying nothing that hasn’t been said a hundred times before by a hundred other High Priests. Zelda is genuinely starting to believe that he only ever enjoyed her company because it gives him an opportunity to listen to the uninterrupted sound of his own voice while she smokes silently and at least pretends to hang on his every word. He’s barely even looked at her. Part of her thinks (or hopes) he’s punishing her for daring to deny him but the other part, the nastier part, says that he simply isn’t interested anymore. Instinctively, almost as if her body thinks it could change his mind, she shifts a little closer to him and their thighs are touching and it’s bloody pathetic that that turns her on. She’s so busy berating herself that it takes a moment or two to realise that it's fallen quiet and, Satan forbid, Faustus has actually stopped talking. Zelda looks up from their barely grazing knees into a wide, cruel smile and feels her cunt clench and the bottom drop out of her stomach at exactly the same moment. Her heartbeat elevating at a rate a hummingbird could be proud of, she takes a drag of her cigarette and refuses to let herself look away from his piercing gaze no matter how much it makes her squirm. 

“Oh, Zelda. No, no, no, sweetheart.” His voice is thick, sweet honey, a sweetness that every inch of her knows means danger. Suddenly short of breath, she chokes on the ribbons of smoke winding their way into her lungs and Faustus continues, his hand drifting down to her knee. “That’s bad, isn’t it, darling? You’re far too good to let this _pristine_ little body touch a man like me.” 

It feels as though he’s physically struck her. Her cigarette holder falls to the ground, still lit, but Zelda doesn’t care if the whole place goes up in flames. 

“No, I...” Before she can get any further, Faustus presses a finger gently to her mouth and she stops so suddenly that for a moment, she wonders if he’s put her under some sort of spell. But no, not unless she counts the spell that he always has her under, the one that turns her from respectable witch to desperate slut in a fraction of a second. 

“No, precious girl, don’t worry, you don’t have to justify yourself. I understand.” Even though she knows she can’t take his words at face value, Zelda feels a rush of pleased warmth at the term of endearment. It’s something she’d slap him for saying at any other time but when they’re like this... 

“All those nasty things before, you didn’t want to do them, did you?” Faustus is saying and she’s so hypnotised by the pseudo-soothing tone of his voice that she finds herself wanting to agree even though his words are so, so wrong. All she can do is stare at him, bewildered. He’s playing a game but hasn’t bothered to teach her the rules. “I know that now, darling. It’s all my fault, isn’t it? You didn’t want me to kiss you after the play, even though your cunt was so wet I could feel it through your pretty dress.” Zelda takes a sharp breath but he ignores her, pressing on. “You didn’t want to ride my cock in church after Mass, it was must have been an accident that you spent the entire service crossing and uncrossing my legs so only I could see that you were all fur coat and no knickers.” 

Oh, Satan. She thinks she understands now. His rage is barely simmering beneath the surface and the only thing she can do is play along and hope that when he combusts, he at least takes her with him. 

“No,” she whispers, her head falling onto his shoulder as his arm encircles her waist. “I didn’t want to.” 

“Of course you didn’t. Poor Zelda. It’s all my fault, I know that. I should never have popped that lovely little cherry, should I? That was my first mistake. I shouldn’t have fucked you until you were screaming on the forest floor where everybody could hear you beg for your professor to give it to you, sweetheart.” Damn him, the part of her brain that hasn’t sunk into gorgeous submission thinks, damn him for making it so fucking easy for her to become this, to love nothing more than being Faustus’s good girl. 

“You shouldn’t have. Everyone thought I was a bad girl after that, and I wasn’t _at all_. It was all your fault.” She sounds like the stupid fucking schoolgirl she never really was but she doesn’t care. Not when his hand is on her thigh and he does want her and she’ll gladly let him win if he’ll just touch her. 

“I know, my sweet, I’m sorry. And all those flagellations, darling. You must have hated it, worshipping the Dark Lord with your body like that.” Nodding fervently, Zelda nestles into him, daring to press her mouth to his throat. She feels, rather than hears, his intake of breath and the gentle vibration of his low chuckle as his hand moves swiftly under her skirt. 

“And you won’t want me to touch you here, darling?” Zelda shakes her head dreamily and spreads her legs to give him better access. It’s a slight concern that she might come the minute his fingers touch her clit, but considering how her last few days have been, that’s a rather nice problem to have. But then his hand stops moving altogether and when Zelda looks up at him in consternation, the hungry look on his face is so intense that she could swear her heart stops beating for a moment. 

“If only I gave a damn about what you want,” he purrs, and that voice really could persuade a woman to do any unspeakable thing its owner put his mind to but she doesn’t have time to dwell on that because he now he has two fingers inside her and her already-diminished capacity for rational thought has completely disappeared. “I don’t care, Zelda. This is mine and I’ll have it any time I want it.” 

Her cunt flutters around his fingers and she’s gone, she’s so completely gone, she’ll play any twisted game he likes and love it as long as he makes her come. And she does love it; being claimed by him has always set her body on fire in the most glorious way possible. 

“Your Excellency, you mustn’t,” she moans, thrusting against his hand like a woman possessed. “It isn't right.” It’s so right, her mind and body haven’t felt this right in weeks, but the Faustus’s groan when she says that is one of her favourite sounds in this realm of existence. They have played this game before; usually she fights back, biting and scratching and clawing, so degradingly raw that there’s something almost mortal about it and it’s always made it that much sweeter when she finally gave in and let him have her. But today, she doesn’t want to fight, not really. There’s nothing in the world right now that’s as important to Zelda as hearing how much Faustus Blackwood wants her. 

“Since when do you think you’re the one giving orders here, Zelda?” He snarls. “Stuck-up little tart. You’ll take what I fucking well give you.” With a series of movements so fast that Zelda’s head spins, Faustus has her straddling him with her skirt around her waist and her legs shaking and the head of his cock just brushing against her obscenely wet cunt and it’s all she can do not to sink down onto him and chase her pleasure with as much selfishness as the Dark Lord commands. “Won’t you?” 

Zelda shakes her head, her mouth open in a breathless moue of near-ecstasy that widens into a disgracefully loud moan as Faustus pulls her down onto his cock, hard. His fingerprints will leave bruises on her hips for days and it’s that as much as anything else that has her grinding against him like a cat in heat. 

“But it’s so dirty. Nice girls don’t do this, your Excellency.” She does feel dirty, in the most delicious way possible. It’s something only Faustus can do to her, drag her down into the mud and make her glory in how filthy they are. 

“Nice girls?” His laugh rolls right down her spine like an electric shock and Zelda whimpers, letting his strong hands guide the movements of her hips. “What the fuck would you know about being a nice girl, my love? You’re rotten to your core, sweetheart.” 

“I’m not!” Zelda protests, fighting a groan even as she feels the telltale muscles tightening in her stomach and her thighs. “I’m not, I-” 

“You’re what, precious? You’re not a spoiled slut? I beg to differ.” With a vicious movement, he thrusts up into her and Zelda clasps a hand to her mouth to mask the wanton noise threatening to spill out of it. Just as quickly, Faustus grabs her wrist and wrenches her hand away. “Not a chance, sweetheart. You want to get fucked, you have to take the consequences. You have to let everybody hear how much Zelda Spellman loves the High Priest’s cock.” 

Zelda knows somewhere, in the small section of her mind that isn’t consumed with trying to prevent her from screaming so loudly she wakes every single corpse in the graveyard, that it’s a little embarrassing that she’s ready to come for him this quickly. She’s always tried her best to make him work for it but maybe he’s right. She isn’t the one in charge here anymore. 

“Not that you’ve ever had much time for consequences, have you?” Faustus continues. His voice is getting more ragged by the minute and she knows he’s getting close to the glorious oblivion she’s just on the edge of herself. 

“You think you get to do whatever you like, whenever you like, hmm? You think that you get to tease me and use me and then get this needy cunt filled whenever you fucking feel like it, and yet you’re not willing to admit what it is that you really want. It suits you, doesn’t it, being able to act like the big, bad man is making you do such dreadful filthy things that a good girl like you would never. You love getting to come screaming on my cock and still being able to claim that tiny shred of decency because it wasn’t _your_ idea. Swanning around like butter wouldn’t melt in that talented little mouth, pretending that you’re above this, that you don’t need it but you can’t fucking fool me, Zelda, not when I can smell the way your pretty panties flood when I so much as look at you. My filthy, fucking _slut_.” 

Somehow, as a current of pleasure so intense that it verges on pain wracks her body, their mouths find each other and the sharp, coppery taste of her punctured lip makes the orgasm so much sweeter. Her head is swimming in a thousand different directions at once and it’s only when she recovers a tiny bit of lucidity that Zelda realises she’s crying. 

“I’m sorry!” She hears herself say, as if it’s someone half a world away speaking. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t... I do, I need you, I can’t...” And she feels hot tears spill down her cheeks and suddenly she's enveloped in arms that she's never expected softness from and although every ounce of logic in her knows it shouldn't feel as if she's going to be alright, she can't help that it does. 

Normally, she would leave. It’s hardly the first time they’ve fucked in his office and ordinarily, Zelda would be all buttoned up and halfway out the door by now. But she can’t, can’t even seem to move except to rest her head against his chest and arch into the gentle rhythm of his hand as he strokes her hair. They rest in silence, and she takes a little too much pride in how long it takes Faustus’s heartbeat to slow to normal. And instead of the hazy fog in her head clearing, it seems that it’s getting thicker and thicker with every second that she sits here, with every passing moment that she lets herself nestle in the High Priest’s arms, until she’s so wound up that she grabs his hand and pulls it greedily between her legs. 

“Say please, Zelda,” he says and although she panics for a second that she might have been bad again, his teasing tone and the kiss he presses to her head reassure her. 

“Please, your Excellency...” She sits up a little, looking him in the eyes with her best pleading pout. 

“Please what, precious? Please touch this dripping little pussy until you come all over my fingers?” Unabashed, Zelda keeps his gaze as she nods and Faustus’s answering grin makes her shiver. 

“Insatiable whore,” he purrs as he fucks three fingers into her mercilessly. “What are you, darling?” 

“Your insatiable whore, Father Blackwood,” she responds in her sweetest voice and relishes the way his jaw tightens at her little addition. 

“That’s right, my sweet. I’m so glad you’ve remembered your place, Zelda. I think it’s going to be good for both of us, don’t you?” 

And as he presses down hard on her clit, Zelda can do nothing but agree. 


End file.
